Shouldn't Be a Good in Goodbye
by alanabloom
Summary: "I found something I want you to have." Mary Margaret gently presses the small, green whistle into her daughter's hand. "HE gave it to me." / A missing scene at the end of 2x04. Mary Margaret realizes that Graham's on Emma's mind, and she gives her daughter another precious piece of him to hold onto. (Because really, the boy's name should be uttered at SOME point).


_A/N: Well. I've been split on this season of Once Upon a Time so far, loving half the episodes (the premiere, 2x04, and last night's) and being totally 'meh' about the other half. Among other things, I continue to be frustrated by my inability to jump aboard any of the other Emma related ships. I'm never good with letting go, and I doubt I'll ever love anyone they bring in for her as much as I loved Graham._

_But maybe it would be better if they at least mentioned my poor boy. His name's been like the "Voldemort" of Storybrooke ever since the episode after his death. That is ridiculous and I don't understand the point of everything that happened in episode seven if it was just going to be written out of history._

_So I fixed it. This takes place toward the end of 2x04, Lady in the Lake, just after the MM/Emma scene in the nursery (probably my favorite of the season, either that or the Charming Family Reuinion in the premiere) _

Shouldn't Be a Good in Goodbye

_If I never loved you, if I never felt your kiss._  
_If I never had you. I know that I...I still would have mourned you. _  
_I would have missed your smile._  
_If it wasn't so worth it, this wouldn't be..._  
_Oh this wouldn't be the bad before the worse and the storm before the storm._

_I haven't even hit the bottom of this ocean floor._  
_This is the bend before the break._  
_This is the mercy not the grace._  
_This is the proof and not the faith I try to find. _  
_There shouldn't be a good in goodbye._

The tears she's been fighting ever since coming here finally escape, cascading down Mary Margaret's cheeks as soon as she forces herself to turn away from the nursery.

_Mary Margaret_. At the moment, the slight identity crisis that settled after the curse had broken has no traction. Being here, in her old home, should make her feel more like Snow White than she has in over twenty-eight years, but in truth, ever since she entered the castle all she's been able to feel is the distance.

The memories that she'd only just gotten back feel more elusive than ever, like they happened to someone else. The feelings she'd had back then, decorating the nursery and feeling her daughter moving inside of her…they're hard to remember when the nursery is stale and cold and unused, when her grown daughter stands in front of her, twenty eight years old and a constant reminder that she'd missed every one of them.

She swipes the back of her hand under her eyes just before she approaches Mulan and Aurora, waiting in the hallway. She glances around for Emma, surprised that she hadn't joined them.

"She said she wanted to look around," Mulan answers Mary Margaret's unspoken question. "Bu we really need to get moving."

"I'll find her," Mary Margaret replies immediately, already starting off. "We'll meet you two outside."

Aurora stands up to go, but Mulan grabs Mary Margaret's arm, expression serious. "I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest."

"Alright…"

"Why are you really here?"

The questions throws Mary Margaret, and she narrows her eyes. "We've told you. We don't _want_ to be here-"

"You're looking for someone. Someone else from your world, who came through," Mulan's tone is crisp, leaving room for no argument. "Who is it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mary Margaret shoots back, impatient.

Mulan's dark eyes flash, jaw tightening. It's clear she doesn't buy it. "Oh, really? Because I heard your _daughter_ asking around in the village, if anyone else had shown up. A man, about six months ago."

Mary Margaret frowns, utterly confused. "Six months…?"

"She asked 'Lancelot', too. Tried to sound casual about it, but it's clearly important." She lifts an eyebrow. "I don't appreciate being lied to, so you need to-"

"Wait, just…shut up for a second…" Mary Margaret's brain feels sluggish, and none of what she's hearing is making sense.

Mulan's face slowly relaxes. "You really don't know what I'm talking about." It's not a question.

"Did she say anything else? About the man-"

"I don't know, she was describing him…dark hair, accent…" Now Mulan's the one looking confused.

"_Oh_." Mary Margaret's chest constricts, clarity snapping into place, and she says softly, "Oh, Emma…" She shakes her head then, meeting Mulan's eyes. "We're not looking for anyone, no one else came through, she was just…hoping."

Mulan studies her for a moment, then finally nods curtly, seeming to accept that. "We need to go."

"I'll find her," Mary Margaret promises. "Ten minutes."

~OUAT~

Mary Margaret stops by her old bedroom. It's not as hard as looking in the nursery, but it still feels like a fist is closing around her heart when she opens up James' wardrobe to discover that the smell of her husband has faded.

Still, she came inside with a purpose, and that makes it easier not to linger. She opens up the drawer beside the bed, and is relieved to find what she's looking for.

She finds Emma five minutes later, sitting in the floor on one end of the ballroom.

Mary Margaret enters from the opposite end, and her daughter looks impossibly small from that distance: leaning against the wall, her knees drawn up under her chin, a tiny figure in the expansive room.

Emma's quiet as Mary Margaret walks across the room, her footsteps echoing across the dance floor.

She sits down beside her daughter, and both of them stay silent for a few moments, Mary Margaret's eyes scanning the familiar room, struck again by how warmth and splendor seemed drained from their home.

Finally, she speaks. "We had our wedding reception here." Emma doesn't answer, and eventually Mary Margaret glances sideways at her. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Emma turns to look at her, finally, expression softening. "Are you?"

For a second it's like they're just roommates again, best friends, on equal footing. Mary Margaret always used to open up to Emma, letting her roommate listen and sympathize to her hurt and insecurities over David.

Now it's different. Now she knows Emma's her daughter, and Mary Margaret can't shake the instinct to be strong for her, all the time. "I'm fine," she answers calmly. Then, hesitating, she says, "I found something I want you to have."

Emma's eyes snap back into focus, and she looks at Mary Margaret, expression part expectant and part wary.

The brunette reaches into her pocket and pulls out the item she'd retrieved from the bedroom, pressing it gently into her daughter's hand.

Emma lowers her eyes, staring down at the small, green object in her hand. "Um. Is this part of a plant?"

"It's a whistle," Mary Margaret explains, turning it over in Emma's palm so she can see the small holes cut into the stem. She pauses, tentative, and when she speaks again, her voice is low and heavy with significance. "_He_ gave it to me."

Still looking down at it, Emma asks, "David gave you a whistle?"

"No, not David…"

Emma lifts her eyes, expression perplexed, but one look at Mary Margaret's face chases away her confusion. Emma recognizes, that soft, sympathetic expression, and at once her heart seizes up in her chest.

"Graham."

Mary Margaret nods in confirmation, though it's not really necessary. "He gave it to me when he let me go…he was risking his life even doing that. He knew he had to go back to Regina, that she'd find out he didn't do what she asked. And not only did he let me go, he gave me this, and promised that I could sound it if I needed help and I'd be led to safety." When Emma doesn't say anything, Mary Margaret continues. "He was right, too. I didn't use it for awhile, but it saved Red's and my life once…"

Her voice trails off, the story dying in her throat, as Mary Margaret glances over at her daughter. Emma's staring down at the whistle with reverence, one finger trailing gently along the edge like it's a precious object.

Her eyelashes sparkle with tears, and, suddenly self-conscious, Emma subtly ducks her head, so a wave of blonde hair falls like a curtain over her face.

She doesn't know why she's embarrassed. Mary Margaret was the one who found her, curled up and shivering in the hall outside their apartment, the night Graham died. She'd been the one to weather Emma's rages in the days after, to lead her away from the funeral when she froze up trying to talk about it, to stay with her all night, stroking her hair and soothing, when she finally broke down sobbing.

"Hey…" Mary Margaret's voice is impossibly tender, and it only make the tear's threat more pressing. But then Mary Margaret's brushing Emma's hair out of her eyes , patiently waiting until her daughter glances over. "Mulan told me you were asking about him?"

Emma's face immediately goes hot, and she closes her eyes, admitting in a small voice, "I thought maybe…he was the only person to ever die in Storybrooke, right? Because time was frozen before, and Regina didn't think she'd ever have to kill someone. I thought maybe, since he was cursed…"

"Oh, honey…"

Emma shakes her head, resolute. "It was stupid."

"No, it wasn't." Mary Margaret's fingers thread absently through Emma's hair. "I'm so sorry."

They haven't talked about Graham in so long, and certainly not since the curse broke. For the first few hours of the aftermath, everything had been too chaotic, too many implications to process…but as soon as they'd gone to the sheriff's station, to take Regina to jail, Emma's eyes had landed on the familiar sight of Graham's jacket, and suddenly everything about the night he died snapped into focus.

"She killed him," Emma grits out, the first time she's said the words out loud, and her voice shakes with rage. "Regina, she murdered Graham. She had his heart, he didn't stand a _chance_…."

"I know."

Emma presses the heals of her hands against her eyes. "I don't want to think about that," she mutters. "I _can't_ think about that, because every time I do, I want Regina dead. I want to _kill_ her, and I want to do it myself, but I promised Henry…"

"Henry's right," Mary Margaret reminds her gently. "We aren't killers. We aren't like her."

For just a second, Emma's face crumples, that old tidal wave of grief crashing over her once again. "But he didn't do anything wrong."

"No, he didn't. He was a good man." Mary Margaret's mind skims back, through twenty-eight years of knowing Graham in Storybrooke, all the way back to that day in the woods, his life saving act of mercy, and she thinks of everything he sacrificed. "A hero."

"He remembered," Emma says softly. "That's what he meant, the night he died, after we kissed…he remembered who he was."

"His curse broke," Mary Margaret confirms; she remembers that day in her classroom, him coming to her, so confused and scared and worried, asking if they'd met before. She slips her hand into Emma's. "At least you gave him that. You let him know the truth about who he is, Emma, and that's not a small thing."

"Why?" Emma asks, her voice suggesting she already knows the answer. "Why did he start remembering when we kissed."

Mary Margaret's quiet for a long moment before answering. "You know the only thing that breaks a curse, Emma."

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, and two tears drip down her face as she does. "It isn't fair," she says eventually, voice thick and trembling. "You kept saying that I…I saved everyone. But I couldn't save him."

~(OUAT)~

That night, Emma take a watch while the others sleep. She lies on her back and looks up at the stars, absently turning Graham's whistle over and over between her fingers, and she's trying to remember the feel of his hands cupping her face, his smell of coffee and leather and woods, the soft lilt of his voice when he said her name.

She tries not to think about him too much, makes a conscious effort against it, especially now, because it hurts to much to think that he was the one person she failed.

Emma lifts the whistle to her lips, and she holds it there for a moment, closing her eyes and picturing him clearly, as if the whistle is a coin tossed in a well, or a shooting star to wish on. Then, momentarily forgetting about her sleeping companions, she exhales sharply, bracing herself for a shrill, piercing sound.

Instead, it comes out in a low, mournful note, the sound of longing and loss. Emma's eyes snap open, blinking against the dark night, waiting.

Nothing happens, whatever help the whistle summoned long gone.

Just like him.


End file.
